Get Thee to a nunnery

Nearly every weekday morning, i listen to Benmurgui in the morning on JAZZ FM. This morning Ralph and his sidekick, a cat who calls himself Jaymz Bee brought up the old "men think of sex every 52 seconds" deal.

Mr. Bee is one of those cats who i really don't think he has done anything at all with his life. He's had a couple of very mediocre bands over the years, a Spinal Tap rip-off, if you can believe it, called Guelph, and the most notorious being The Look People. The Look People stuck their noses in the air and forbade the sun from shining on us simpletons when they released such inspired insights as "Everyone Is Looking for a Job That Doesn’t Suck". Earth shattering stuff, i know.

He now conducts "Jazz Safaris". i suppose he is Toronto's answer to Buster Pointdexter. Professional partygoer, but not a party The Mayor needs or even wants to be at.

Anyway, Ralph and Jaymz played off one another for a while. Jaymz was being prudish, disbelieving the facts. Up until this morning, i've believed that Mr. Bee saves his stinger for other boy bees. The topic changed to "the arts report" or some such nonsense, with a brief mention of Bjork. Afterwards, Benmurgui asked Bee if he had thought about sex during his report.

Bee said "Well I have to admit, the name Bjork did certain things for me."This confused me all to hell. Is Bee straight or gay? And if he is gay, but gets stirred about Bjork, what the hell does that say about me? You know how i feel about Her!

i'm pretty sure i'm not gay, because a hot woman from marketing came into our department and ate a Timbit. i've been watching a bit of porn these days, so i know the fake look of pleasure on a woman's face. Her enthusiasm for the donut was NOT fake, and i think I have a bruise on my chin from it hitting the floor.

Remember those kids in high school that got all kinds of attention from the teachers, but nobody could figure out why? Bee and his cohorts are what becomes of those kids when they leave school. Child minds in adult bodies.

i picked up the NOW today, as i do most Thursdays. I actually think that it is a better paper than The Village Voice. i know, i know, you can’t say anything bad about that paper, and you can’t name your band Dead Kennedys The Voice strikes me as a pretentious wank fest, a stuffy pair of panties networking for a pair of tickets to Leonard Cohen or Lou Reed.

Opening up the NOW box, i discovered a mess. All sorts of glossy slick publications mixed in with my usual low-rub soy ink diet of "street sense". i pulled out a virgin copy, and to my own surprise, i felt like Britney "doing it again" as a slick playbill sized booklet slipped out of my newspaper. The woman eating the Timbit, the slick fake porn, both aroused the same emotions in me.

i headed across the street for sandwiches and beer. After scoring both, i took a seat and waited, and waited, for the TTC to take me home. i listened to the vast majority of the new Weezer disc, which isn't that bad, and enjoyed the niceweather.

Entering the bus, i noticed a woman, as i’m sure everyone else did. She was sitting in the back row, middle seat, wearing a short skirt with legs spread. Her crotch was the pins at the end of the bus's bowling alley. i practically had to be a trapeze artist while crawling over her legs in order to get a seat. She was quite polite and seemed to be well educated, but why she insisted on showing her panties to everyone entering the bus remains a mystery to me.

Trust me though; the unpleasant acrobatics were worth it. If i don't get a seat on the 11 bus, i am likely to commit homicide. i'd rather listen to The Carpenters than stand on the 11 bus!

i thought about how funny it would be to mail the Pride Guide to someone on the way home. What smiles, what yucks. Then i actually got home and looked at the guide. It's corporate nonsense, nothing but advertising by big, BIG companies. i hearken back to Alan Arkin in Little Miss Sunshine "Get me the dirty stuff too, none of that airbrushed horseshit!" or something.

There's a big story going around in NASCAR this week about "The King", Richard Petty selling his empire to big corporate interests. Petty's results on the track have been horrendous since before Jeff Gordon or Dale Jr. were in high school. The corporate money is only going to prolong the slow death of the Petty legacy. Give me the dirty old days, the fist fights, the blood, sweat and beers. The peep holes, the glory holes, the baths and steam houses, The Dirty Boulevard.

Don’t make me dust off my Burroughs novels!